Portrait of the artist as a young fag.

3/31/2026 - Music is magic! (No? Not funny? Okay.)

Barely organised rambling up ahead.

Dormant, stagnated for the past four or so years, ever since I dropped out of school - my brain aches each moment I have to think harder than beyond muscle memory, sloppily gliding across the ‘default’ notes I’d grown accustomed to on the fretboard. For when having to speak like a proper adult and to articulate myself is beyond difficult, I default to opening a new instance of FL Studio and scream into my blankets, with guitars accompanying lyrics akin to those of a 14-year-old boy going through a breakup for the first time, I pray my next-door neighbours don’t hear me through these thin walls. So far, I haven’t had any complaints.

The origin of this whole ramble sparked from a stupid line from the second Insomniac’s Spider-Man game, “Music is magic”. A small phrase spoken akin to the title of My Little Pony, one that made me let out a genuine exasperated sigh when I’d first heard it. Almost from how stupid it is, I began thinking back on my journey with music and how I ended up here. As much as I hate to admit, I am a musician who gets paid sometimes to open for musicians I very much look up to. Hey, that’s something I never thought I’d say.

Looking back to when I was a little kid, first properly delving into rock music, Nirvana was a big part of my childhood. The 1991 Live @ Paramount show will forever be stuck in my head as what a ‘proper’ live performance should be. The energy in the room could be felt even through my 60Hz 720p computer screen at the time. The chaotic whirring of guitar feedback over screams. The way Kurt threw himself across the stage, flailing his guitar around in an explosion of emotions, of which I’ve unconsciously modelled my stage presence after having daydreamed about it a comical amount of times. I wanted to be a musician like him growing up, as cringy as that may sound.

In 2020, I got my first guitar. A cheap acoustic guitar that I still play despite it not sitting comfortably on my body anymore, and despite how the strings rusted, I’m still too lazy to restring. I quickly learned my first song; I can’t remember what it was, but it was a Nirvana song. Eventually, I’d cover those songs and quickly find out my voice wasn’t raspy enough; my voice simply was too soft. During this time, I’ve lived with a family with too many heads to count. Crammed into a small space, I couldn’t do anything without disturbing anyone. It was Hong Kong after all, rent doesn’t get any cheaper, and land doesn’t grow itself. My whole apartment is probably the size of a Western living room.

I’d been quiet my whole life; I’ve always kept to myself. I still can’t sing or scream when I hear myself through the floor monitors. There’s a part of me that still is scared to be heard or judged or worse, disturb anyone. Despite having moved back to my parents’ home and being home alone for most of the days, my voice still doesn’t project the way it should, my voice still doesn’t sound the way it should. Of course, there’s also the factor of being transgender. Having an appearance in all regards that doesn’t match your soul, having a voice that doesn’t match the rest of your art.

I think a part of me loves emo and specifically fifth-wave emo for just the reason of feeling understood and finding comfort in belonging. Most fifth-wave emo artists are other queer kids who grew up on the internet the same way that I did. With influences from all over the place, confined to their bedrooms, screaming their heart out with a distinct lo-fi sound that formed from the limitations of the given recording gear.

To me, that is the most sincere form of art you can have. To create in less than ideal circumstances, to truly ‘do-it-yourself’. It’s a feeling I don’t get often from the scene in Hong Kong, besides a few people I know who are around my age or, if not younger than me. In a city that has barely any live venues, in a city where the ‘good’ new bands are often formed by people that’d been in the scene already for more than ten years, in a city where the cheapest DTG, lowest quality Gildan shirts are printed and upcharge god knows how much more, and in a city where even new indie bands has to seem ‘professional’ with MVs and a photoshoot.

Despite my qualms with the current local scene, it’s just logistics; there’s no bitterness. Bands need to survive in a city like this; those I endearingly call “uncles” do music as a hobby. They pour money into this, money that we poor kids don’t have. I’m grateful for them, I’m happy they get to bring over overseas bands, and I’m glad I got to meet new friends, and I’m grateful for there to be new music. I’m grateful my friends accept me for being trans and using the right pronouns for me. It sounds simple, and as sad as it sounds, it’s not expected in these trying times. In all honesty, I just get jealous of the overseas scenes. I get jealous of seeing stickers of funny text over trans flags and the graffiti about being gay. I just wish there were more queer musicians that I could relate to within this scene, that’s all. That’s all I really wanted to say.

Sometimes I still can’t come to terms with being an ‘artist’, despite being one in almost every sense. Despite not often doing other media besides music, I still dabble in them. Hell, music itself is art. I even get paid to do this (sometimes) for crying out loud. Even with the messages from strangers that they love my music, I still feel a sense of emptiness from within, despite my momentary spark of happiness. And most likely, it’ll stay there until I make something I can truly be proud of.

Even with that feeling I have, it’s not always gloomy. A bit ago, for the first time, I enjoyed my own music and listened to it with fresh ears. It’s a strange experience for sure, despite having listened to my own music so many times, I’ve never truly ‘experienced’ it properly. A few days ago, I listened to my music on the train. I jokingly called it ‘good train music’. Watching the sun shine on mountains, matching the lyrics I’d written about seasons changing, having wasted years and watching them go by idly. I found comfort in my own music for the first time, like a message from the past telling me that I understand you, I see you.

I’m writing this as I’ve been preparing for an upcoming show next month in April. Rehearsal, in all honesty, has been kinda rocky due to my lack of proficiency with my own instrument, but my friends have been helpful and helping out whenever they could, and I’m happy for that. I’m opening for Weatherday! For the 20th time I’ve mentioned this, I’m excited! Weatherday was part of my introduction to indie music, and I’m glad things have gone full circle to me opening for them.

Music’s been to me an outlet, a way to express love to others. I remember when I wrote love songs for my ex when I first got my guitar, and how I wrote sad songs for myself when we broke up. I still write songs about my boyfriend and every little feeling I have, as if for documentation. I still share music that I love with people I love around me, and I still listen to songs that remind me of them.

Not to mention, I’ve met so many of my friends through going to shows, moshing with them, stealing microphones with them, watching their shows and I wouldn’t be here without any of them loving me as much as I love them, and I’m so happy to be part of the indie scene.

Music is contagious, music is planting flowers and watching it bloom, seeing the pollen carried and spread. Music is feeling like shit and writing songs about it, music is having someone else across the sea, a stranger relating to you feeling like shit and finding solace in it. Music is crashing of bodies in a bar with barely functioning AC, screaming along with strangers to songs you all love. Music is love, music is joy and music is pain.

For when words don't serve me, I hope my screams do. Music is magic, and I'm a magical skramz girl.